Doomsdays
by Backroads
Summary: Being an account of the life and times of the man known as Doom.
1. Prologue

**Prologue...**

_Her face was impossibly beautiful, just like he remembered it. Pure serenity in an expression, pure love. Her eyes were wide—not in fright, but in recognition. Her lips spread in a peaceful smile, white teeth glinting like pearls._

_She knew he was coming after her._

_Well, he thought, no time like the present. His surroundings were unfamiliar and of no consequence. Not even stable in form but shadows of real surroundings he could not quite get a good look at. What attachment did he told to them? Nothing mattered anymore. Smiling in return, he stretched out his hand, scratched and bleeding, towards her._

_Immediately she pulled back. Light too bright shocked his eyes in synchronization with shouted words he did not comprehend. He felt the scream burst from his throat, a response to the rocks that must have been throwing themselves at his head._

_No. No. She was waiting for him, she wanted him to go now. He ran towards her fading figure, calling her name._

_"Who's Anna?" A whisper from a hundred miles away._

_The light faded, strange voices intensifying. "Keep that cloth pressed right to his head. Just like that. I've never seen so much blood. I can't…"_

_Her smile faded, but just for a moment. Her hands, tan and rough from sun and hard work, grasped toward his. Her smile returned, brighter than before, brighter than those strange lights._

_His head hurt so badly. The shadows deepened, form began to fade. Somehow he had to move his feet toward her. Then he could go where she had gone before._

_"Keep breathing, man!" The distant voices were surprisingly powerful in their commands. "Don't give up on us now, keep breathing. You know to breathe, right?"_

_Breathe? What an odd question. Of course he knew how to breathe, didn't everyone? Suck in air through the mouth, through the nose. Release the air just the same. Fill the lungs, let the stomach rise._

_Granted, he didn't recall it hurting so much before._

_"Worst disaster I've ever seen in there."_

_"He's one of the best. Everyone assumed he had a fighting chance. He'll pull through, he's a tough one."_

_"Yes, just keep staunching that blood."_

_"It's getting everywhere."_

_Blood? He saw no blood. Just her, now almost reachable. Face beaming like an angel's, arms ready to encircle him. Mission all over. The end._

_No. He stopped his movement. The bright light mingled with the deepening shadows, the latter threatening to envelop him. Would that be good or bad? Was there any way of knowing? No, it wasn't over. Pretty little thing, still out in the woods if all went right. No one around to stumble on a small child, take her in. S he was smart. He couldn't leave her._

_And everything else…_

_He tried to be still, but his body moved uncontrollably. Arms and legs jostled all around. He thought he would be stick_

_Breathing still hurt._

_Head still hurt._

_"Hang on!" one distance voice shouted._

_He forced his eyes open, not aware they had been closed. Light, faces, nothing he recognized._

_Open eyes hurt too much._

_He closed them as the blackness surrounded him._

More to come.


	2. In the Arena

**Part I: PITWORLD**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 1: In the Arena<strong>

_"The consciousness of being deemed dead, is next to the presumable unpleasantness of being so in reality. One feels like his own ghost unlawfully tenanting a defunct carcass." Herman Melville_

* * *

><p>His eyes opened to dim firelight, hardly in keeping with the screams and shouts. A scream of his own welled up in his throat and it was only instinct that kept it in. The ground—uneven, rocky, and covered in a thick mix of sweat and dust—jumped up hard to meet him. He caught himself with his hands, his broken nails digging into earth. For a split second he was grateful for that steady attachment, the sensation of something he could feel. He breathed deeply, only to shudder in pain as something pressed against his lungs.<p>

Get up, instinct told him. Get up and fight. When danger lurks one must anticipate it and fight.

He forced himself to his feet as another blow from behind sent him back down, this time without a chance of catching himself. Red swam before his eyes, mixing with the faint light, and his stomach heaved in vain. All of him hurt—the pain of the moment and a deadening soreness that must have existed long before.

He wasn't sure where he was.

The pit. The rocky earth, the high walls lined with sconces. The roar of the crowds. The creatures lusting for blood before them. There was a smell in the air that touched a corner of his brain, a scent made up of dust, metal, and sweat. Yes, a bit of familiarity was there.

His left arm hung limply as he picked himself up again. Fighting. This was the pit where the fighting happened, the way of life to those so doomed to this existence. No good was an injured arm when one was fighting. Such an arm was possibly the reverse of one's survival. The break, for he was certain it was a break, sent steady waves of pain through him. How long had he been fighting in here? When had this particular round started?

What idiot asked questions at a time like that? A little voice in the back of his head laughed long and hard at the notion, and he gritted his teeth once more—against pain and his own stupidity.

The creature of the moment, the creature of upmost importance at this time, was a Vraal. It waited, posed as a threat should be, not three feet from him, its massive green tail swinging behind it like a giant cat's, its claws wriggling against the sweltering air like a fine lady's fingernails. Oh, how he hated Vraals. Scaly sons of bitches, too clever for the weapons they were.

He looked about for a weapon. He wouldn't be in the pit without a weapon, would he? He wouldn't be suffering as a treat for an overgrown lizard. The crowds had no interest in a feeding frenzy.

The Vraal struck again, claws ripping through the air like blades, velocity sending wifts of dust spiraling into the air.

He fell back against the hard stone of the wall, wincing in further pain as the claws missed a more deadly attack on his shoulder. The stone was cool, not yet warm with the body heat exhaust of a long day of matches. He sucked in all the breath he could. No mind to pain, survival is what mattered. He had upset the Vraal, but the crowd seemed to love it, the din of their voices consisting of cheers and bets and a few choice swears.

That was the time he spotted the weapon, lying in the dust. He felt something akin to disdain. It was merely a rod of iron, heavy and broad and clumsy.

The Vraal titled its head, its eyes sizing him up

"Kill!" came a particularly rowdy voice from the stands. Voices sounded so far above them. The pit was dug into the ground, only the barest improvement on a natural pit, but one so deep it would be a death sentence to be thrown in. The sconces holding their torches lined the wall, but the light was only enough to make the battle something close to fair.

He fell towards the rod, hands groping for it before they were even close to touching it.

The Vraal's tail lashed out, the end delicately whipping at his ankles. He was in no position to hold his ground and put up no defense. If he were falling, that was all there was to it.

His fingers slipped from the cold metal of the weapon. So close. Had he used it before? During this match? Had he succeeded? Had this damnable beast suffered any proper blow? He stretched his arm forward.

With a cry that sent the crowd into a riot the Vraal sprung. Like a child jumping into leaves, like dogs piling for a meaty bone, the beast barreled down onto him, sending what air he had taken right back out from his lungs.

Get the rod. Get the rod.

His legs were good, though the right was pinned under the weight of the Vraal. The other, though, the other… he kicked as hard as he could manage, not even caring what made it through the tough scales.

The Vraal was upset, at least. It screamed again and whipped its claws at him, this time making its mark.

He screamed, but the movement of both of them was enough. His right arm, all that was good, moved enough of a decent inch. The rod was his. It was bad iron, full of flaws, but heavy enough.

The Vraal was so hideous. Stupid arena-bred monster. Its claws moved again, stabbing once more into his shoulder a hair's breadth from their last entry. Its mouth opened for a victorious roar.

He swung as hard as he could. A good old fashioned summoning of everything any creature wanted when he wanted to survive.

The metal cracked against the Vraal's jaw, and the following crack of breaking bone ricocheted in perfect echoes throughout the pit.

The crowd loved it. What did a blood-thirsty crowd not love?

The Vraal sprung back , tail curling protectively around its body.

He rose, trying against all he had not to stumble. Oh, good iron that could serve its purpose.

But the Vraal did not mourn long. Both forearms sprang up and both sets of claws made their motion again.

He swung the rod like a madman. Perhaps that was what he was.

His opponent was not amused. Vraals were born for the ring and could tolerate much, but pain was pain no matter what creature you were. Its eyes blinked, then focused themselves into a cold stare as it marched forward.

He wanted to back up. No. Absolute foolishness. Move to the side. The side was safe. He darted to the left, his left arm flopping like a dead fish at this side. The dust clouded around him and stuck to his skin in a sweaty coating. His own speed surprised him. Were his legs not hurt? Was he exuding adrenaline? Foolish things to think about. In the pit it was all about action, all about movement, all about results.

And all about anticipating the opponent. The Vraal moved faster. Its tail struck first, colliding like a boulder into his stomach. Its body followed fluidly.

He hit the ground hard, his shins cracking beneath him. The crowd roared in delight. Were they always like this? Somehow the affirmative seemed right. Blood and action, blood and gore. A fight that provided all of that and more. The right length of time, the right uncertainly of outcome. He rolled over to his back, the black and brown ceiling spinning far above him, red and black mists blending about in front of his eyes. His hand still gripped the rod.

The Vraal leaned over him. Hot saliva dripped down from the broken jaw.

His arm acted of its own accord. It jolted up, the rod merely an extension of it, and metal smashed into the Vraal's skull. For the briefest of seconds nothing seemed to happen. But then a seam of red appeared, growing wider with each moment, before splitting right on open into a spillage of blood and brain matter.

It was impossible to hear anything above the crowd.

The Vraal's body slumped to the ground, barely missing him. He didn't think he would care if it hadn't. He didn't care if he never moved again.

"End match!" a steady voice announced.

Out of the corner of his eye the Ralad men appeared, rather bored faces not even glancing at the body of the Vraal they began to drag away.

He thought about laughing to himself. To think the genius of the Ralad race was epitomized in removing carcasses. Clean up duty. Before he could reach a decision on laughter he was jerked to his feet. When his attempt at walking failed, he was merely dragged.

"You fought good," one of his carriers said. A mere boy, tall and strong enough to be of use but still childish in so many other ways. "Not your best match, but good."

He couldn't respond. He just wanted to heave out the contents of his stomach. Though the question had been summoned: he had fought before?

Of course he had. Only explanation. Today… he fought for images, entering the ring, the sound of the expectant crowds… nothing came.

"It was a good come back match," said his other helper, an older woman. "The crowds had missed you, you know. When I heard them demanding you, I thought it would be death to send you back out so soon, but you held your own. You feeling all right?"

He shook his head weakly.

They both laughed, rather derisively.

"To be expected," said the woman. "After being at death's door for three weeks."

Death's door? "I don't…"

"Don't what?" asked the boy.

He shook his head. Before the Vraal shoved him down… before that…

"Leave him be," the woman urged the boy. "He wasn't been quite right since Capra."

Capra. He tried to make sense of the word, but his mind gave nothing. "Who is Capra?"

The boy gave a nervous chuckle.

The cold light of the pit was behind them now. They marched him through an even more dimly lit corridor. All around him he heard things dripping, and raucous voices called out to each other. He couldn't make any sense of what he said. Every passing second was more weakening than the last.

"Stay with us," the boy said. "Easy does it."

They laid him down on a cot that stank of its last fifty patients. The boy and the woman backed off, and the dot of a candle swung over him.

"How are you feeling?" The speaker was another woman, a bit younger, though streaks of grey threaded their ways through her red hair. Without waiting for a response she tore away the remains of his shirt. The very action reactivated the pain in his shoulder. "Ooh, these are a mite deep. My vials, now."

Someone moved in the background.

He didn't want to keep his eyes open any longer. "Water?"

"You heard him, get him some water. Why you farkers didn't see to that earlier I can't imagine and don't even want to." Something cold and slimy on cloth was pressed against the sounds and he nearly bit his tongue in reaction. "Yeah, it stings. Get over it, you baby. Why you let a Vraal of all creatures get so close I'll never know. I lost food rations on you, you know. Loss of food rations and I'm tending you. You make me sick." Her voice was surprisingly cheerful. "But can you blame me? You in your state being sent back out to the arena. It's only natural I would bet you dead in the first minute."

The water was brought. It was warm and tasted like dust, but his throat did not care and he drank deeply. He enjoyed the feel of the water inside him and even held his peace as the woman tended to his wounds. It was only when she was splinting his arm that he spoke again.

"Where's the arena?"

She laughed shortly. "The arena is all there is to us now, you fool."

"But where is it?"

"Where it's always been since they dragged your sorry arse to the Shadowlands. How long's it been for you? Four months for me, not seeing much longer. Deadworld, here I come. And I'll be happy to arrive, mind you."

"I don't remember," he said truthfully.

"That long? Heard you were one of the old-timers of this place. Sturdy as a rock, the kind that lasts. You're the stuff of legends."

"Here…" He let the word roll on his tongue. It felt as heavy as rock and just as bad-tasting. When had he arrived? And to what place?

"Yes, here." She was growing impatient.

He forced his eyes open. Caretaker that she was, she did not have the answers. "I don't remember."

The irritation faded from her face, true concern rolling in. She was hardly an attractive woman, but the fear in her eyes made her look girlish. "Remember what?"

He paused a long time before saying the word. Funny how a word could frighten you. "Anything."


	3. Memories Gone

**Chapter 2: Memories Gone**

A memory is what is left when something happens and does not completely unhappen. ~Edward de Bono

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><p><em>Jerrad had never considered himself spoiled. He was as nice a person as he could hope or aim to be. His mother, rest her soul, had repeated to him time and time again that life in the palace of Del made him no better than anyone else. Indeed, he had tried to live accordingly. He had treated well the help, he had been kind to everyone. But a soft life of ease could perhaps be called spoiling. <em>

_ Crian never said a word of complaint nor criticism, but Jerrad could sense the truth. No actual disdain—Crian was no fool—but an honest recognition between his own life and skill and those of a boy from the palace. A few token hours now and then playing blacksmith did not mean much when the forge meant the difference between dinner and an empty belly. Jerrad had the essential skills, no doubt; but Crian had experience._

_ Jerrad had always been the stubborn sort. The past few days since the death of the king had been difficult. He had never felt so helpless, not even when his mother had died. Then again, he had led that spoiled palace life. Nothing much for to want, comforts at every turn. He would have traded it all for Endon to listen, had the opportunity been his. But there was nothing for it. Endon was in the palace living a blasted fairy tale and Jerrad was here, plunging head-first into the truth. He had failed once, lost his chance, and wound up here. He would master the forge if it killed him. _

_ Something would go right._

_ So he threw himself into the work as if Crian were paying him his weight in gold. Was it a desire to prove himself? A need to repay Crian and Anna for their kindness? A way to take his mind from something in which he was powerless? He wasn't sure. By the end of the third day his hands, soft and white, were red and blistering. He gritted his teeth against the pain and pushed on, only to have Crian look on without saying what he probably wanted to say and Anna mutter under her breath and leave the room. She returned with bandages and medicines Jerrad wasn't sure they could afford._

_ "Let it wait awhile," she said, tugging him away from the forge._

_ He may have been between work, but…_

_ "Now," she said firmly._

_ She took him outside. The sky was pale blue, softened further by the dust kicked up from the streets. It all made Jerrad nervous to breathe too deeply. What he wouldn't give for a breeze to clean it all up, maybe some rain._

_ "It's such a nice day," Anna said as she sat him down on the remainders of a barrel, one of the better things to be called a chair. "Feel that sun."_

_ Jerrad wasn't so impressed. He made a sound in his throat that hopefully she would accept as agreement._

_ "Really, Jerrad. It is."_

_ She swabbed the medicine over his blisters. "Are you going to try to tell me the weather was better over the palace wall? Because if you are I'm not going to believe you."_

_ Jerrad sighed. He wasn't so sure about that. Magic played tricks all too well on the mind. "What does a nice day or a bad day weather-wise matter?"_

_ She began wrapping the bandages, pulling tight after each wrap. "It's all we really have out in these parts. I decided years ago that I was going to be grateful for every pretty day that comes my way. At least I can get out and offer my father's work, do some shopping."_

_ Jerrad studied her face. Sweet expression, big eyes, a smile that seemed to have no intent on fading. "Are you ever miserable?"_

_ Her smile widened. "Sometimes. Are you ever happy?"_

_ He sighed. "I don't know if I can think about that question right now."_

_ "Chin up. You've been through a lot."_

_ "Like living in a palace while the rest of you lived here is considered suffering."_

_ "Living a lie unaware might be." She adjusted the bandages to her liking, though her fingers lightly remained on his. "You were having a dream. A wonderful dream, but you still woke up. Welcome to reality, Jerrad of the Palace. I don't envy you for a moment, but I'll happily share the truth with you."_

_ He held up one hand. His skin already felt less raw. "Thanks."_

_ She laughed. Her laugh was a sweet, little one, just the kind of thing he would expect from her. "You learn a few things in a family of blacksmiths. Treating injuries is second nature to me."_

_ He nodded his thanks again. He wasn't sure what else to say._

_ "Well," Anna said at last, clapping her hand_s. _ "Let's get you back inside."_

* * *

><p>Had he expected his revelation to do something? To reveal, in quick dialogue, his entire past? Did he not exist around these people? Did they not know something of him? Was there nothing more to offer him than stares of bewilderment and fear? Even the woman acting as some type of healer was at a loss for words. She had advised him to lie still, had instructed her helpers to bring him more water, had said a few things here and there about no doubt getting his memory back in no time at all.<p>

And that was the majority of all she said.

For the first hours, perhaps the rest of the day, he could do nothing but lie in that damnable cot, staring at the ceiling, wondering. Was he afraid? Nah, a loss of memory had nothing to do with fear. The healer woman had assured him the break in his arm was a clean one and would fix itself up in no time as long as he treated it well. He was alive, alive and on his way to healing, and that was plenty for which to be grateful.

There was much that made sense. He had recognized the Vraal for what it was, had he not? He recognized the pit, had understood its purpose and his purpose for being in it. She had called him an old-timer. What did that mean around here? How long had he been here, playing those evil games for the crowds?

Strange he wanted those answers more than anything.

He tried forcing his mind, violently searching it for memories. He tried to let it drift and wander, hoping the memories would fly back of their own accord.

Neither worked.

At last, he fell asleep.

He wasn't sure how long he slept, but when he opened his eyes again he felt worlds better. His arm was still splinted, but the stinging pain at his shoulder had numbed considerably and the whole of his body seemed to be thanking him for much needed rest.

He still remembered nothing.

The room in which he lay could hardly be called a room. It was but a small cavern, cramped and low, with nothing but a cot, a few chairs, and an overturned barrel glorified as a table. The healer woman sat next to it, staring at the half-a-candle glowing on it.

"You're up again," she said cheerfully without bothering to look at him.

"Would you have won back your food rations had died?"

She shook her head and laughed richly. "Nope. Rules are rules and for me to win the bet you would have had to have been properly torn to piece in the pit. But you weren't and you're here and that's all there is to it. I'm not upset, though. I did some beautiful work on your shoulder. All the infection is drawn out and a few days should leave you nothing but an impressive set of scars to show off. How does that sound to you?"

He nodded. Sure. Whatever.

"How's that head of yours? Sorry I didn't grant you much help yesterday. Remember who you are yet?"

"No." He pushed himself up to sit. The cot creaked beneath him. "Just blackness."

She smile faded from her face. "Well, that's no good."

"No, it's not."

"Give it a few more days. I'm sure you'll start remembering things."

He sighed and nodded. He had no reason not to believe her. "But you know nothing?"

She shook her head. "Rules of survival around here. Don't share personal information. Life before the arena is merely an old story. All that matters is here and now."

The notion made perfect sense. "Wise. So I never said a name?"

Another shake of her head.

"Have you ever shared yours?"

"Names don't exist here. You get attached to people, you can't handle it when they fail in the pit. Names prevent that."

"No one has ever escaped?"

She dipped one finger into the melted wax pooling around the candle. "Those that do don't make it far." Her voice was cold.

"How do you know?"

"They bring the bodies back. Mix 'em in with the food. No sense in letting it all go to waste."

A sudden sense of nausea whirled through his belly. "In the food?"

"They say it goes to the beasts, though who knows? Better not to think about it, I say."

How could one not think about it? "Who's Capra?"

She sighed, stood up from her chair, and made her way over to him. "Capra is one of the few who shared a name. He's dead. Now let me see that shoulder of yours."

Surprised at the finality of her words, he let her peel back the bandages.

Her smile returned. "Looking good. I'm smart that way. Whatever they'll do with the survivors without me after I'm dead I just don't know. I suppose I'll be happy to get a break."

"They said I hadn't been right since Capra."

"That's for sure. You were a mess. I take it you don't remember any of that. It's all gone?"

He nodded. "I just remember being in the pit. Middle of the fight."

"They picked you up, right from your cell bed. You hadn't spoken many words. You were nearly dead. But they figured you were eating, drinking, could maybe stand. They just flung you out into the pit."

She wasn't telling him something, and it was frustrating. "Because of Capra?"

"Yes. Because of Capra."

"What happened?"

"I don't know. I didn't see it. They called me in later to examine you. No one told me the details."

"You don't know if I were fighting him in the pit or—"

She pushed him with surprising strength back down to the cot. "Best not to think about it. You have a lot of rest to catch up on. A memory to get back."

He let her push him down, but he couldn't be quiet. "You're not much help with that."

She bit her lip, and her face went red. But then she sighed. Gave in. "There's not much to tell. You've been here for months before I arrived. You held your own in the pit. You were badly hurt a few weeks ago. I don't know your name. That's all there is to it. I'm sorry I can't be of any more help. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have places I need to be." She headed for the door.

"Wait," he said.

She stopped, but did not turn around.

"What is your name?"

"We don't use names here." She left.

* * *

><p>Sleep came again. His mind seemed to remain aware of his problem, and jumped readily at every flash of dream. Several times he awoke for a space of a few seconds, panicked and eager to know if the dream had revealed anything. But he never remembered them, and sleep returned only too quickly.<p>

At last he remained awake. The candle had burned to nearly nothing, and what was left of the flame revealed a warped wooden plate of food. Thank the stars there was no meat on it, just a chunk of brown bread and some shriveled vegetables. He gobbled them down, scarcely tasting anything. Just as well, he was sure. Then, with his injured arm still at his side, he moved from the room.

The hall was all but a labyrinth, the tunnels some insect might make. A few modest torches provided faint light as the corridor wove its way into rooms and turns. Voices tumbled in and out, footsteps echoed against the stone, the sound moving like mice through the walls.

This is where the fighters were kept. He should know this place. The healer had called him an old-timer. He continued walking, hoping his feet would know where to go.

They didn't. He was in this place for what must have been the first time, some sad victim to be lost in the tunnels.

For the first time, dread truly filled him. He didn't remember anything. He didn't remember anything. He fell against the wall, suddenly desperate for breath.

At last he continued his wandering, the dim tunnels becoming more and more terrifying with every step. He imagined a web of these miserable halls stretching far into the earth, but he soon realized just how tiny the place was. It was not long before he reached what must have been the far end and the maze began to reveal familiarities and patterns.

He saw people, too, all sorts of races. They huddled in their rooms, they walked the halls like he did. No one paid him a considerable amount of attention, nothing much more than vague greeting or a passing stare. If anyone knew who he was, no one cared.

Then there was light. He turned a corner he had not before, and everything opened up before him.

The pit.

He found himself on a crude stone balcony, little more than an opening carved into the rocky. It was not nearly as high as the stands where the crowds sat but it was for the most part away from the madness of the pit.

Four people were already there. Three men and a girl. They did not notice him as he entered—their attentions were on the events.

Whatever was happening, the crowd loved it.

He put his good hand on the edge and looked down.

The match was in teams, two pairs of fighters tied together at both hand and foot, hardly seven feet of wire between them. The first team was a man and a woman, middle-aged, solidly built, skilled enough with the axes they both carried. Their teamwork was considerable, as if they had done this very thing before. The tiniest of glances were exchanged as the darted to and fro, dodging blows from the other team, sending out plenty of their own.

He predicted they would win.

The other team did not show such skill. It consisted of two young men. Individually they might have done well, but communication had failed them. They tugged each other around, no leadership appearing.

One of them was the boy who had helped him back in after the Vraal.

Blood already poured from his cheek—his mouth had been split halfway to his ear.

Why was he watching this?

The boy's partner pulled him as he attempted to drive a sword into their opponents, but the boy tripped, and his partner was yanked down.

The wire that tied them together slid right through his neck.

The boy with the bleeding mouth jumped back to his feet, body shaking as he stared at the horror beneath him.

It was opportunity enough for the man to crush the axe blade into his skull.

The boy fell immediately and silently next to his partner.

The crowd cheered.

The winning couple did not.

"Well, Basher," one of the men on the balcony said. "Do you think they'll take us up on our offer?"

There was no reply.

"Basher?" the man repeated. He seemed to be of about thirty years. He was slender and lithe, looked the kind that could move fast. "Are you deaf? Good to see you again after all these weeks."

He was talking to him.

He turned to the slender man. "Excuse me?"

The man nodded at the pit. "Tyderith and Mona. They're ruthless enough. They were friends of Capra."

"What?"

The man laughed. He seemed amused by all of it. The other two men and the girl were listening expectantly. "You still believe in avenging Capra's death, right?"


	4. A Meeting of Vengeance

**Chapter 3: A Meeting of Vengeance**

"Revenge is a confession of pain" ~Latin Proverb

* * *

><p>The room was for all intents and purposes thoroughly identical to the one in which he had awoken and he found himself wondering how anyone around here managed to keep locations straight. For all he could surmise the slender man, who had introduced (reintroduced?) himself as Bolt, had picked the first empty room to strike his fancy. The others on the balcony, two men and the girl, had joined them. The walk to the little room had been rather silent, the news of his amnesia too solemn a thing to disturb. He didn't mind; as much as curiosity surged within him he assumed they would tell him what they would when they would, and all that was required of him was patience. He took the opportunity to survey them, those he had already began to think of as his companions.<p>

Bolt wasn't much more than his original analysis. He was like a stork in human form. His hair was pale blonde, and so wispy as to be unnoticeable. His eyes were a common brown, his face common enough.

The others had been given no names. Perhaps, like the healer, they had never bothered to reveal any. One man was old, so old that his arrival in the pits must have been nothing short of a mistake and his survival so far nothing short of a miracle. He was thick, though, well-built, muscular, tall—though he doubted the man could hold his own very long. A beard, solid grey, was clipped close to his head while his hair tumbled thickly to his shoulders. His eyes were as grey as his hair, his face rocky and wrinkled. The other man appeared about his own age, perhaps a little younger. His skin was dark, though his hair a fiery red. He was a good two heads shorter, but more muscular than most men about. He was someone to consider a danger. He wore no shirt, probably out of pride of his scarred-yet-muscular chest, and eyed him with friendly amusement. The girl was the sort that would not be noticed anywhere. Plain would have been the kindest way to describe her, but the truth was that she was beneath plain. Her body seemed to have once been plump, but hard living had merely made it look saggy now. Her face was flat, her nose big, eyes too small. Her hair was her own beauty, thick and brown and stubbornly shiny.

Bolt led them all into the room. Its furniture consisted entirely of a two cots. He let the girl take a seat, which she did so gratefully if silently. Bolt remained in the doorway for a several long moments, then turned to him with a sigh.

"You remember nothing." A statement of fact, a confirmation of all that had been revealed at the balcony when he had been told the dazed man knew nothing of what he spoke.

He shook his head.

"Nothing at all?"

The short man smirked.

Bolt shot him a look that might as well have been bladed. "We forget our friend here was practically Capra's second-in-command."

The short man was not fazed. "Lot good he does us without a notion of who we are. I happen to find that hysterical. He will be a perfect pawn. Get him do what you say, let him cause chaos, we escape while he is caught."

No one else seemed as amused.

Bolt turned his eyes back to them. "You once introduced yourself to me as Basher."

"Basher." He rolled the name around on his tongue. He hated it, but it was as solid a name as one could have around here. It was not his true name, though. He repeated it. "Basher. Did I say anything else?"

"You said lots," replied Bolt. He sat himself down on the ground, his spindly legs jutting out at incomprehensible angles. "Lots that is useful, lots that is not, but we will take some time to spread it all out properly, if you want."

Basher, as he decided he might as well be called, looked to the other three. The short man was thankfully no longer laughing, the old man's expression was unreadable, and the girl looked as morose as ever. "You mentioned Capra."

The girl bowed her head.

"She was fond of Capra," said the short man. "Very very fond, if you can take my insinuation. 'Bout as fond as a girl can—"

The girl's fist moved in a flash, colliding hard into the side of the man's stomach. As tough as his torso was that first was apparently tougher. His eyes bulged in sudden pain and his breath stuck in his mouth with the barest of sounds. His face was that of a man who got exactly what he deserved in pain.

"Tell me about Capra," Basher said. His need to know was suddenly urgent, the information of Capra as vital as his own true name. A name that had returned again and again, a key to everything.

"Capra was the greatest warrior we had around here," Bolt said. The respect in his voice was clear. Punch here," he gestured at the girl, "once saw him, several years ago, in the Rithmere Games, before she too had the misfortune of entering and winning. He was the finest the Games had ever seen—hardly made a fair fight for anyone, stole the award that day, practically. He was no less victorious here in the pits. He was the acrobatic sort, but gifted with as much strength as you could want. Grew up on a farm just outside of Del, just wanted to make a little bit of gold for his folks. Same old sad story as anyone else."

Basher felt nothing. What had brought him here?

"That's the thing, though," the girl called Punch said slowly. Her voice was surprisingly high, not matching her appearance. "He survived here for years. No one else makes it more than a matter of months. A year, not to mention multiple years, is unheard of. Capra made it, though. Capra could fight anyone in the arena. Just like that."

Basher watched her with fearful interest, waiting for some stronger emotion like tears, sobs, a mere crack in her voice. But Punch was solidly still.

Bolt nodded. "Yes. That was our Capra. Hero of the Pits."

"And he's dead."

The short man laughed coldly. "You can say as much. He's Vraal fodder and you apparently are our new hero. Basher the Brave. Is that what we should call you? A little too much alliteration for my taste, but then again it's not my taste that matters here."

"Shut up," said Punch.

Basher closed his eyes. He felt weak again, and his head was beginning to hurt. What time did he have to listen to this? "Just tell me. Tell me everything I need to know."

"You were here for some odd months when the likes of us appeared," Bolt said slowly. "You and Capra were the closest of friends. Capra had an idea, you see, and you were his strongest supporter. He and a few were going to break out of here, find help, come back. Build an army the likes of Adin of Old's, if you will."

Basher remembered none of it.

"You and he moved first. You were the strongest, the most daring. You felt you both could get out of the pits, past the guards, survive the Shadowlands. Most of all us thought you were crazy, but then again we all figured crazy might just be good enough. So one night, when things were quiet, you and Capra moved forth. You dug a hole in the wall. You climbed through to the edges of the pits. They found you almost at the end of the tunnel." With that, he said no more.

Basher waited. "And then?"

"That's really all we know. You were the only one alive when the Grey Guards brought you back. Capra was about as dead as a man could get, all but ripped to shreds. You were bleeding something fierce. They called you both a warning to anyone else who thought they could outsmart the Shadow Lord. You were thrown back into the prisons, but not for very long before they had you back out fighting again. You were in a bad way, but they all thought it would be easy. You had apparently learned your lesson, they would just mess you around a little, kill you later. That's what nearly killed you, that battle after Capra. And then… who knows what?"

"I lost my memory," he whispered.

"Wish I could lose mine of this place."

"You'll get it back," Bolt said reassuringly. "If you survive, everything will work out as it should. But what you must understand is that no one in this place, not one, forgave those who killed Capra."

"Revenge?" The idea struck Basher as funny. "You all want revenge."

Bolt seemed surprised at his reaction. His mouth opened to speak, but no words came out.

"It's not just revenge," the old man said suddenly. It had been the first he had spoken. His words were slow and sturdy. "Even those who thought him crazy admired Capra. Even those who knew nothing of his crazy plan admired him. Like Bolt told you, he was a hero, in every sense of the word. And this is a place that needs a hero if it needs anything at all. I came here prepared to die. I played in the Rithmere Games. Everyone thought I was a fool for doing so, at my age, but I was a soldier and a guard in my younger days and I worked the quarries for the rest of them. I was the best my village had to offer and when I failed them by being brought here I figured my life was just about up." He narrowed his eyes and took a step towards Basher. "Capra kept me going. Capra told me there was more than making my peace with God and dying without a fight. If he told even one other person that I will see that his thoughts will not fade from this place." He finished with an expression that was neither smile nor frown, just conclusion.

"What he said," said the short man.

The entire idea sounded ridiculous and foolish to Basher. Or perhaps his head just hurt too much to think clearly. From what he could gather they were all slaves here, slaves with no other purpose besides killing each other for the glory of the Shadow Lord's followers. Looking for a way out? A good idea? Maybe. But mere revenge for a fallen warrior? The concept was needlessly suicidal. What fools would waste energy on such a thing? The best and most logical thing to do was to grieve and mourn as much was needed and then to work on staying alive in this place until you failed in the arena.

And yet… and yet if fate consisted only of eventual death, what harm was there in playing a few risky cards? Against his better judgment and state of being he felt a smile play on his lips. Yes, it was clear: he liked this idea. He thought it was silly and stupid, but he had evidently once thought of doing something else even more silly and stupid.

"Are you with us, then?" asked Punch.

Bolt was watching him, also smiling, as if he had arranged the entire matter and knew the end by heart.

"Revenge," Basher said slowly. "Exactly what does that mean? How many people are involved in this?"

"Right now?" The short man scrunched up his face in thought. "Right now, you ask? Well, before the evening counts and with the assumption of stringing along Tyderith and Mona, we're looking at an even dozen. I do so like solid numbers."

"A dozen. Can we work with that?"

Bolt shrugged. "We work with what we have, my friend. Do you have any idea how hard it is to gather a group?"

"He doesn't," said the short man. "He lost his memory. We've been through this."

"Don't make me hit you again," said Punch.

The short man ignored her and approached Basher with an extended hand, ripe for shaking. "Name's Galton."

"Your real name?" Basher asked, shaking Galton's hand.

"Yes," he said with obvious pride. "Not many around here offer true names. They all think it's taboo or some other nonsense. I figure those who die will die, names be damned. No offense to you or anyone else 'round here who never bothered to share a name."

"Boulder," said the old man. "And I'll be leaving it up to you to decide if it's true or not."

Basher greeted them, then turned back to Bolt. He did seem to be the leader of the bunch at the moment. "And what, exactly, does revenge mean for you?"

"Avenging Capra's death," Bolt replied quietly. He looked towards the doorway, as if expecting or fearing someone to arrive. "We want to destroy as many guards as we can to pay for what they did to him. Survive, die, we don't care. But it is a poor people who let a hero fall without giving a cry of defiance."

"Do you even have a plan?"

Bolt's smile widened. "We have the beginnings of one, and I have faith that it will grow. Just wait."

No plan? That was not a good thought. But Basher nodded. "I see."

"Tyderith and Mona will be cleaning up from the arena. We will speak to them."

The couple who had mercilessly murdered the boy in the arena. Basher's heart went chill. "I saw what they did. You want them?"

"You think we wouldn't because they killed a boy?" Galton laughed sharply and crossed his arms tightly over his chest. "Happens every day. A dozen times a day if the crowds are lucky. They'll get over and you will, too. They did what they had to in order to survive."

But all Basher could see was the vision of the axe pummeling into young skull.

"We've all killed, Basher. All of us. That's why we are here."

All of us. Basher looked down at his hands. There was no sign of the Vraal's blood on them. That was only a Vraal, a monster meant for destruction. No loss there. But what had the Vraal been in numbers? The latest opponent, a less moralistic kill?

Who else had these hands killed?

"Did I kill anyone?" he asked.

"Of course you have," Galton said brightly.

He should not have asked that question. Nor should he be asking the next. "How many?"

Punch and Boulder looked at each other. All Galton did was shrug in a clear expression of how-should-I-know?

Basher felt his legs grow weak.

"We need to get him back to his room," Punch said suddenly. She jumped to her feet with more agility than her body suggested and took him by his arm.

Basher could hardly stand. He didn't want to lower all his body weight onto a mere girl, but she did seem up to the task. She sturdied herself under his armpit and deftly took his arm—the broken one—over her shoulder. "Don't worry, Basher, I got you."

"Need help?" Galton offered.

"You'll hear me shouting in the tunnels if I do," she said. "Find Tyderith and Mona and see if they're interested. We need all the help we can for a proper bloodbath."

Bloodbath. How many bloodbaths had he caused? Basher tried to stand up, and after a few long moments he managed to throw some effort into his feet and even contributed to their stumbling exit from the little room.

"We're all behind you, Basher," Bolt called after him.

"You need to ignore Galton," Punch said cheerfully as she half-drug Basher through the corridors.

"I think he's a jerk," Basher said in full honesty.

"I suppose you're right, it's in his nature. But you'll be hard pressed to find a better friend, anyone more loyal than him. He's like a big dopey dog. Good man, just incapable of tact."

"So… twelve," he mumbled. "That's all? Why does no one else listen?"

"Many are like how Boulder was. Why fight fate? If you were foolish enough to trust the Rithmere Games, it's your own fault. And…" she lowered her voice as a few people passed them. "And… you can't trust everyone here. I might even say you can't trust most people."

"Yet you seem to walk up to anyone to ask them."

"It's a risk, I admit, but what do we have to lose?"

"Your lives."

She laughed. "I like you, Basher."

He smiled. The girl was no beauty queen, but certainly sweet. "What brought you here?"

"The Rithmere Games. I had grown up there, always had worked the games. I had always wanted to play them. My neighborhood needed the money, and I was the strongest there was. I even won. That was a surprise to me. And here I am."

He was silent for a moment. "Does your family miss you?"

Her smile faded. "I know I miss them. I'm sure they all think I'm a traitor. Running off with the gold."

Poor girl. "Do… do you happen to know how I got here?"

She shook her head.

"Do you know anything about me?"

"We've… we've rarely spoken before today. Capra introduced us a few times, but we never much interacted."

Basher managed more energy to his legs.

"I'm afraid, Basher, I don't know anything about you."

He tried to push away from her, but his strength failed him and he collapsed back onto her. She capably took the weight. "Does anyone?"

"I imagine Capra did," she said softly.

Capra. The name meant only what they had revealed to him. It was not the key he had hoped it to be.

"Capra was your best friend here. Apparently you did not grow up far from each other. You had a shared history that way. Here we are, the healer's hut."

Basher stumbled back onto the cot.

"Mind you don't say a word to her."

"Why?"

Punch's face was serious, full of as much expression as her piggy eyes could muster. "We don't trust her."

She had seemed a friendly enough woman, if settled in her ways. "Why not?"

"We have had no reason to approach her. Until we see a reason, she's not worth the risk. Now rest. You never know when you'll be called into the arena."

Then she left.

Poor girl, he thought again. Such a hard life. She could have hardly been older than sixteen, if that.

Then his thoughts turned to Capra.

He wished he remembered knowing him.


	5. Plans

**Chapter 4: Plans**

"We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars." ~Oscar Wilde

* * *

><p>Basher slept. His mind plunged into perfect blackness as deep as a pit and recognized nor realized anything. He then awoke easily, his eyes carefully opening in a tactful action, for he still remembered where he was. It was no surprise to look at the dim stone ceiling.<p>

He sat up. He had no idea how long he had slept, but his body had needed it. Now he felt fine, his body strong and refreshed and his injuries even aching a bit less. How much sleep would he require to feel better? To get his memory back?

The events of before flowed through his mind, and he accepted them with tolerant defeat, though it was hard not to look at his own hands and wonder what they had done.

Revenge. Bolt and the others had spoken of revenge. And what form of revenge? A mad rush of chaos to see how many guards they could wound before they were all struck down? He laughed weakly.

A tray of food was ready for him, more or less the same thing he had eaten earlier. It was still tasteless. He had barely finished eating it when the healer woman entered the room.

She smiled at him, her red hair all the brighter with the candle she held. "Ah, a return to a healthy appetite, is that what we have here? That's a good sign if I can't think of any others."

Basher nodded and picked up the last few crumbs with his fingers. "It's good food."

"Good food?" she echoed in derision.

He shrugged. He was certain he had eaten better, much better. "It's not much in the way of flavor, but it feels the stomach well."

She laughed and began to check his wounds. "Well, I don't know if it has truly satisfied anyone in these parts, but it keeps us going, if that's what you mean."

"They should feed us more if they expect us to fight."

"Ain't that the truth. Lemme see that shoulder of yours."

He let her pull his shirt away.

She smiled at what she saw. "It's healing wonderfully. Am I good a healer or what?"

He thought of what the girl Punch had said, about not trusting the woman. "You are. I want to thank-you, for all of this."

She tilted her head to the side, studying him as she smiled. "It's one skill I can offer and I'm more than happy to do so. Though sometimes I think I'm merely prolonging the inevitable."

It was impossible to ignore the ice that bit the air after that comment.

"Don't think of it that way," Basher said. "Isn't life better than anything?"

She sighed and shrugged. "I really don't know anymore, to be honest with you. No one suffers much—death does come pretty quickly, cases like yours the exception."

"You're bringing hope."

She seemed to like that thought. "Enough about what I do. How is your arm?"

He held it up for her, and she firmly patted it. There was pain, but it was dull and seemed to fit the situation.

"If only you can keep out of the ring long enough for it to heal correctly."

"Does the crowd really like seeing easy matches against cripples?"

"Sometimes. Sometimes a good malicious mauling is what they want."

"That's terrible. Who are they?"

"Who? The crowds?"

Basher nodded.

"Favorites of the Shadow Lord. He has more than his monsters, he has those with minds of their owns who truly care for his plans. And this is the entertainment with which he rewards them. It's a beautiful system and I mean that in full sarcasm."

He laughed even though there was nothing particularly funny said. He supposed he just wanted to laugh.

His laugh made the healer woman laugh. Her face was almost pretty when she laughed. "Now that's what every healer wants to here, the sound of healthy laughter! We will get you thriving soon! Any chance of that memory returning?"

That ended the laugh. "Not a thing. But I found out about Capra."

She frowned for a moment, then shook her head as if she didn't want to think about any such things. "Capra should be a lesson to us all. Don't fight against the arena, just fight to stay alive. Nothing more."

"I heard he wanted to free us all."

"He wanted a lot of things. He was a fool."

"That's what you think?"

"Oh, I thought he was brave, if that is what you mean. I'm grateful for the hope he gave to people, but I think he gave them a little too much hope and that's not a good thing around here."

He studied her face, thinking once more of how he was not to trust her. He wanted to trust her. She was a healer, she had to be good. What sort of wicked person would devote an entire life to learning to heal? What sort of person had she been before she had been brought to this awful place? "This place needs you."

She laughed sharply. "It sure as hell needs me! It might be wrong of me and it might be pointless but I promise you, old timer, that I will do all I can to help anyone who gets injured out there."

Then she lowered her face to his, and in a voice as cold and as sure as steel, she continued "I liked Capra. Everyone did. Yes, I think he was a fool and figured he earned what he got. But I will never, ever do anything to harm any soul in these pits."

Basher had no response to that. He stared back at her, wondering how to read her eyes and wondering if he even remembered how to do so correctly. Was he wrong in his sudden realization?

Punch was wrong. He trusted the healer.

But before he could respond, there was a sharp rap at the door.

A guard. Cold and towering and horrible-looking, a sword in his hand. "The arena awaits."

"He's still hurt, sir, he can't—" the healer began.

But the guard shook his head, eyes seeming not to care about anything either of them said. "Not the man."

Basher's heart went cold.

"You." The guard pointed his sword straight at the healer.

The color drained from her face.

"No!" Basher leapt to his feet. His broken arm swung out before he remembered it was broken, and it wrenched itself back to his side in pain. But he did not sit back down. "You can't take her, she's the healer, the only one this place has got!"

She nodded. "They need me!"

The guard spoke without emotion. "You would prefer another to die in your place?"

"No!" she cried. "That's not what I meant at all. I only meant—"

"Then come. It is your turn to fight today."

"She's a healer!" Basher shouted.

The sword moved fast. The reflection of a candle glittered in the metal before the broad side smacked into Basher's head. He fell hard.

He shook away the dizziness and the redness, but it was too late.

The healer woman and the guard were gone.

* * *

><p>Basher didn't remember how he made it to the little balcony above the arena, but the next thing he knew he was there, standing with a handful of others watching the excitement beneath them.<p>

The healer woman carried an axe. Her face was steady, not a trace of fear in it. What had she said before? Her time to go to the Deadlands? But she was strong, maybe she could hold her own here.

Her opponent was another woman. Middle-aged, strong. Mona. Funny how he could so quickly recognize people and yet not remember anything of his past. Had anyone spoken to her about Bolt's plans? Mona carried a club. She was as expressionless as the healer woman.

They were circling one another, weapons out, like two dancers.

The healer struck first. She leapt forward with surprising grace, pounding her axe toward Mona.

Mona dodged it easily, her club striking away the axe with such ferocity the healer nearly lost hold of it. Then Mona made her own move, whirling in several large circles until she was behind the healer, her club raised.

The blow sent the healer right to the ground.

Mona paused, waiting for the other woman to stand up again, which she did within a minute, legs and arms trembling as she picked herself up. Blood dripped from her forehead where she had smashed into the ground.

But the healer's held firmly onto her axe. She heaved her shoulders back and with a gasp even Basher could hear swung the axe. The blade glinted once.

"No, Mona," a man near Basher whispered. He was like her. Tyderith.

Mona moved fast during the time. The club was like an extension of herself, another brutal arm. Just before the axe blade dropped into her, the club moved, knocking the axe.

The blade sunk into the healer's shoulder, just next to the neck.

Silently, she crumpled to the ground.

The crowd loved it.

And that was it.

Tyderith's head dropped into his chest and he muttered something that sounded like a prayer.

The comparison was strange. Here was a man who was grateful for the survival of a friend and all Basher could do was stare in shock at the fate of the healer woman.

She stared up at the arena ceiling, eyes open, face blank.

The Deadlands. She was finally there.

May it all go well for her.

"Basher." It was Tyderith who had spoken. "You're the one they call Basher."

Basher nodded, wondering just how many people knew this name while the healer woman had not.

Tyderith's blue eyes widened in delight, and he nodded fervently. "It is you. My wife and I-Mona, right down there…. We're new here, we heard of you."

Apparently someone had spoke to them.

"I already told Galton we would help. Anything. We can't handle it anymore. Mona cries herself to sleep every night she is forced to kill another."

Had Basher cried in such a way?

"We will fight," Tyderith continued desperately. "We will fight, we will kill again, we will do anything you ask us to do. Even stay in this hellhole. We don't even ask to be taken from it, just an opportunity to fight back. We're good at that, my wife and I."

"Do you enjoy killing?" Basher wasn't sure why he asked the question, but there it was, out in the open.

"Oh, no, sir," Tyderith said in horror as he shook his head. "But we're fighters. We like fighting. For sport, of course. As long as no one gets hurt—I mean, not terribly hurt. I'm sure you know what I mean."

"I saw your faces when you and your wife fought those two boys. There was no pleasure in your faces."

"Only sadness. I don't even know if that's shows."

Survival. The only way to survive around here was to kill others.

"All we care about is the fighting!" a loud voice boomed. Galton pushed his way through and clapped his big hand on Tyderith's shoulder—a strange look as Tyderith was a good two heads taller than Galton.

"Galton," Basher said as well as he could.

"Basher," Galton returned cheerfully. "I see you have officially met our two new recruits."

"Any friend of Capra's is a friend of ours!" Tyderith shouted.

Galton rolled his eyes and put his hand over Tyderith's mouth. "Hush, you fool. You'll give us away."

Tyderith nodded.

Galton sighed and removed his hand, turning his eyes to gaze squarely up at Basher. "When you can get away, find us. Both of you. And bring that pretty wife of yours, Tyderith."

Basher glanced back at the arena. Mona was beneath the balcony, staring up at them. She was sort of pretty, in her own way. Dark hair, a fair complexion save for a tiny beauty mark just beneath her right eye.

"Yes," Tyderith breathed, as if just remembering his wife had just face death once again. "I'll go get her now."

Then, with the memory of the healer woman still haunting him, Basher followed Galton.

* * *

><p>They met in what Basher could only call a kitchen. It was larger than the other rooms, with a few pots over a few fires. It caused him apprehension at first, such a public place, but Punch assured him all was well with it.<p>

"It's our own kitchen," she explained as she sat him down next to her. "The guards bring us food supplies, but doesn't do much in the way of preparing it for us. That's our own responsibility."

"Is there no stealing?"

"Sometimes. But when it does happen, the rest of the population doesn't tolerate it. You can't be a thief very long in a place like this." Her expression was sad.

The group was indeed a solid round number of twelve. They sat more or less in a circle, staring at each other and even sometimes chatting. Only those Basher had already met had names. The rest refused to disclose them.

The taboo, Galton had called it.

At last, all twelve were in the room and Bolt climbed to his feet. For a skinny human stork he sure could present himself. All voices went silent and all eyes turned to him.

"We meet in the kitchens for a reason," he said. "Not only does it give us more room, but it is part of our new plan."

A low cheer rose up.

"Capra will not have died in vain. If none of us cannot escape this place, we will make those who would not let Capra leave survive."

Another low cheer. There was joy in it, but still the fear of being discovered. So that joy simmered, almost daring to someday rise to a boil. The energy was contagious and even though Basher still was not sure was happening he did know he wanted it to happen.

"Tell us about the kitchen!" Galton said in the closest thing to a shout the meeting seemed to allow.

"It will all be quite simple," Bolt said. "They bring us the food supply. We will all be there to receive it. And then… we strike."

It was suicidal. But perhaps that is what they wanted.

"Not many bring it. We can take them down. We can move past them. It will all be considered a riot. With any luck, none of us will be killed."

"Punished?" Mona asked.

"Of course. But think of what happened to Capra."

"And what of leaving this place?" another voice asked.

The room went silent. Basher realized that Bolt was looking straight at him.

"A couple of you may recognize Basher," he said quietly.

"Basher can escape!" The whisper spread like wildfire.

Could he? Apparently he had failed before.

"Basher… has lost his memory," Bolt continued. "All of it. A few of you from Capra's grand escape plan will recall that Basher knew all of the plan. But he remembers nothing anymore."

"But you were Basher's friend!" A young man stood up, face shining. "You can think of another plan!"

"Yes!" This time the voice came from next to him. Punch. "Yes! Don't you all see? We attack the guards and Basher can escape."

It sounded crazy to Basher.

"Does anyone know if that old tunnel was closed off?" Boulder asked.

"No," someone said, a woman. "It's still there. The guards pushed some crates in front of it, but I caught a glimpse of it when I was taken out to gather wood. The tunnel remains."

"We will need to find a way to make it so Basher can make it to the tunnel unharmed," Boulder said.

Galton laughed bitterly. "It's like Capra's plan all simplified, all over again."

Pure stupidity, that's what it was. Madness that had cost him his entire memory.

Yet no one else in the room seemed to feel it. How could that be? The very air buzzed with excitement. These people did not care if they lived or died, but there was no depression to that. They were not unlike the healer woman that way, but they still cared. They did not care if they lived or died, but they did care if they fought or not.

He found himself standing up. He found the entire crowd, all eleven other people, staring up at him in stunned and expectant silence.

"I will find a way out," he heard himself say. "And a way out for anyone who follows me. We will do what Capra wanted. If any of us—excuse me, when any of us escape, we will go home and bring back all the help we can. I promise you."

The cheer they made was not very loud, but it was enough.


End file.
